
Class Jl .__ 

Book- - It* 

CopigM L5J 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Argonaut and 
Juggernaut 

By 

Osbert Sitwell 




New York 
Alfred • A ■ Knopf 
1920 



>(!.* 



i& 



COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY 
OSBERT SITWELL 









PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OT AMERICA 

FEB 24 1920 



©CI.A561980 



A 

5 



To 

The Memory of 

Robert Ross 



My thanks are due to Messrs. Blackwell for 
permission to reprint certain poems which 
first appeared in the anthology " Wheels," and 
to the editors of The Times, the Nation, Art 
and Letters, the Cambridge Magazine, 
Everyman, Colour, " New Paths " and 
"Poetry and Drama" (New Series) for al- 
lowing me to reprint various poems which 
first appeared in their columns. Several of 
the war verses at the end of this volume first 
appeared in the Nation under the signature 
" Miles." 



Contents 



PREFACE POEM 

HOW SHALL WE RlSE TO GREET THE DAWN ? " 



PAGE 

ix 



BOOK I: THE PHCENIX-FEASTERS 



Part I 




PAGE 


" Why should a 


Prelude 






3 


ride the Sea? " 


The Silence of 


God 




5 




Adventure 






8 


Part II 


Dusk 






13 


Cornucopia 


Sailor-Song 






14 


Song 


The Dance 






17 


Prospect Road 




BOOK II: GREEN-FLY 


War-Horses 






33 


Green-fly 


Church-Parade 






35 


De Luxe 


At the House 


of 


Mrs. 






Kinfoot 






37 





Sailor 



18 



21 

25 
28 



40 

44 



BOOK III: PROMENADES 



Nocturne 






51 


"A Sculptor's Cruelty" 


62 


The Lament of 


the 


Mole- 




Pierrot Old 


63 


Catcher 






53 


Night 


66 


The Beginning 






54 


From Carcassonne 


67 


The End 






56 


Progress 


70 


Fountains 






58 


The Return of the Prodi- 




Song of the Fauns 




60 


gal 


7i 



Contents 





PAGE 




PAGE 


London Squares 


73 


Metamorphosis 


83 


Tears 


75 


The Gipsy Queen 


85 


Clavichords 


76 


Black Mass 


86 


Promenades 


78 


Pierrot at the War 


89 


Clown Pondi 


79 


Spring Hours 


90 


Lausaic Theme 


81 







BOOK IV: WAR POEMS 



" Therefore is the Name 
of it called Babel " 

Twentieth-Century Harle- 
quinade 

This Generation 

Sheep-Song 

The Poet's Lament 

Judas and the Profiteer 

Rhapsode 

The Modern Abraham 108 





The Trap 


109 


93 


The Eternal Club 


in 




Heaven 


112 


95 


The Blind Pedlar 


"3 


97 


World-Hymn to Moloch 


114 


98 


Armchair 


117 


IOI 


Ragtime 


120 


103 


Peace Celebration 


122 


104 


The Next War 


123 



HOW SHALL WE RISE TO GREET THE 
DAWN ? " 

How shall we rise to greet the dawn? 

Not timidly, 

With a hand above our eyes, 

But greet the strong light 

Joyfully ; 

Nor will we mistake the dawn 

For the mid-day. 

We must create and fashion a new God — 
A God of power, of beauty, and of strength — 
Created painfully, cruelly, 
Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds. 

It is not that the money-changers 

Ply their trade 

Within the sacred places; 

But that the old God 

Has made the Stock Exchange his Temple. 

We must drive him from it. 

Why should we tinker with clay feet? 

We will fashion 

A perfect unity 

Of precious metals. 

[ix] 



How Shall We Rise 

Let us tear the paper moon 

From its empty dome. 

Let us see the world with young eyes. 

Let us harness the waves to make power, 

And in so doing, 

Seek not to spoil their rolling freedom, 

But to endow 

The soiled and straining cities 

With the same splendour of strength. 

We will not be afraid, 

Tho' the golden geese cackle in the Capitol, 

In fear 

That their eggs may be placed 

In an incubator. 

Continually they cackle thus — 

These venerable birds — 

Crying, " Those whom the Gods love 

Die young," 

Or something of that sort. 

But we will see that they live 

And prosper. 

Let us prune the tree of language 

Of its dead fruit. 

Let us melt up the cliches 

Into molten metal ; 

Fashion weapons that Mali scald and flay; 

Let us curb this eternal humour 

And become witty. 

W 



To Greet the Dawn? 

Let us dig up the dragon's teeth 

From this fertile soil; 

Swiftly, 

Before they fructify ; 

Let us give them as medicine 

To the writhing monster itself. 

We must create and fashion a new God — 

A God of power, of beauty, and of strength; 

Created painfully, cruelly, 

Labouring from the revulsion of men's minds. 

Cast down the idols of a thousand years, 

Crush them to dust 

Beneath the dancing rhythm of our feet. 

Oh ! let us dance upon the weak and cruel : 

We must create and fashion a new God. 

November. 1918. 



[xi] 



Book I 
The Phoenix Feasters 



To Edith 



The Phoenix Feasters 
Part I 

Prelude 

We have wandered through the dim valleys of sleep 

— That lie so still and far — 
Have bathed in the lakes of silence, 
Where each star 

Shines brighter than its own reflection in the heavens; 

Where, diving deep, 

My soul has sought to catch and keep 

The silver feathers of the moon 

That float like down upon the waters, 

In whose pale rest 

We find 

Forgetfulness of death 

That comes so soon 

— Waters that lull the mind 
With some sweet breath 

Of wind, of flowers, 

With summer showers of rain, 

Or quicken it with recreative pain. 

We have fled further from this leaden cage, 
Seeking those rainbow forests, 

[3] 



Prelude 

Where the light 

Thrills through you, shaking, fainting, with delight; 

Where sway tall luminous trees 

Wind-swept in one vast flashing harmony, 

That like a wave 

Splashes its seething sound 

And then envelops you. 

We have strayed to other places, 

Courts of fear, 

That stretch like echoes through the endless dusk 

Drenched with dead memories; 

Like musk 

They cling about you 

In a heavy cloud. 

Each shadow-sound we hear 

Clutches the heart. 

With fevered hands we tear 

The terror-pulsing walls 

— Fight our way out 

— Out 

Into other Courts 

As vague and full of fear. 

And we have found the proud and distant palaces of night. 



[4] 



The Silence of God 

One night upon the southern sea 
In helpless calm we lay, 
Waiting for day, 

Waiting for day. 

As goldripe fruit falls from a tree 
A comet fell ; no other sight, 
But in the ocean tracks of light 
Trembled — then passed away, 
Away. 

No sound broke on our waiting ears, 
Though instinct whispered wayward fears 
Of things we cannot tell — 

Of things the sea could tell. 

No wisp of wind, no watery sound 
Reached us; as if high on the ground 
We stayed. A sense of fever fell 
Upon each mind, 

Each soul and mind. 

Until our eyes, that ever sought 
The cloying empty darkness, find 

[5] 



The Silence of God 

Another shape — or is it wrought 
Of terror? — on the deep 
The endless deep. 

All dark it lay. No light shone out ; 
And though we cried across, no shout 
Came back to us. As if in sleep 
The black bulk lay so still, 
So still. 

No sign came back ; no answering cry 
Cleft the immense monotony 
That swathed us like a funeral pall, 
In folds of menace ; almost shrill 
The silence seemed, 

And we so small. 

Swiftly a boat was lowered down ; 
The rowlocks creaked ; our track shone white 
Behind us like God's frown, 
God's frown. 

We clambered up that great ship's height; 
There was no light; there was no sound; 
Nor was there any being found 
Upon that ship, 

That ship. 

We groped our way along. God knows 
How long the rats had been alone 

[6] 



The Silence of God 

With dust and rust! Yet flight was shown 
To have been instant, in the grip 
Of some force stronger than its foes 
— Its human foes. 



Then sudden from the dark there thrilled 
The distant dying of a song 
That hung like haze upon the sea, and filled 
Each soul with joy and terror strong, 
With joy and terror strong. 

Upon the sombre air were spent 
These notes, as from a hidden place 
Where all time and all love lay pent 
In lingering embrace — 

In lingering embrace. 

Deep in our hearts we felt the call; 
We knew that if our fate should send 
That song again, we must leave all 
And follow to the end, 
The end. 



[7] 



Adventure 

Down through the torrid seas we swept, 
Sails curved like bows about to shoot. 
As an arrow speeds through the air 
Our ship parted the clinging waters. 

Then, out of the ocean 
Blossomed a distant land. 

The air quivered, 

Dancing above it 

In a frenzy of passion. 

Waves of heat trembled towards us 

Across the cool lassitude of the ocean. 

They rolled new odours at us, 

Sounding the chords of hidden senses, 

Till we were alert 

With minds as sensitive and taut 

As resined strings. 

The sea itself 

Crouched down behind us, 

Urging us on, 

Driving us on, 

[8] 



Adventure 

To unknown 
Perilous adventures. 

Ships and sea were forgotten. 

We trampled 

And stumbled 

On, on, 

Through the burning sand 

To the hot shroud of the squat threatening forest, 

Where, as you walked, 

You tore apart 

A solid sheet of air. 

Brown satyrs grimaced at us, 

Swinging with long hairy arms 

From crooked branch to crooked branch. 

The sun 

Was at its height. 

Rays pierced the hot shade; 

White lines of light 

Shot through the shadows 

To where a point of green 

Shuddered with dangerous movement, 

Throbbed and hummed with the whirr of insects. 

Birds more bright than any streamers from the sun 

Cleft the air 

Like hammers; 

Scintillating wings 

Tossed patches of colour 

[9] 



Adventure 

Into the dark shimmering air. 

Shrill calls 

Whistled like knives 

Hurled through the empty heat. 

Frantic chattering rose up. 

Through the honeycombed darkness 

Slim animals 

— Their hides splashed with false sunlight 
Quivered away 

Into the hollow distance. 

Or clattered past us, 

Cloven hooves 

Kicking at the hard, bent trunks 

Of gnarled trees. 

Large hairy fruits of wood 

Were cast at us, 

Snarlingly, 

From the darkness. 

Faces 

— Faces peered down 

From the interwoven boughs. 



Hastily we stumbled on; 

Hurriedly we stumbled back, 

Bewildered. 

Small tracks 

Tripped through the blackness 

Hither and thither; 

Twigs crawled from under our feet, 

[10] 



Adventure 

Hissing away 

In venom 

— And we were bewildered. 



Then suddenly 

We felt, 

Rumbling in curling patterns through the ground, 

The beating of drums. 

As winds bellow into caves, 

As waves swirl and curl into hollows, 

We heard the blowing of wooden trumpets 

And of pipes. 

Soon, 

Under the western canopy of the sun, 

Where the fevered hills lay huddled together, 

We saw great gourd-shaped palaces 

Loom up like mountains. 

Figures played on trumpets, 

Twisted like snakes, 

Or on the curved, carved horns of unknown beasts. 

In the sound was mirrored 

The panic seizures of the night, 

— The fear of things that walk in darkness. 

The drums were painted 

In hot colours, 

That, even through the dusk, 

Glowed torture and writhing torment. 

Like a shower of molten lead 



Adventure 

The din fell down upon us 
From the Palaces. 

Bare yellow women 

Hurried 

To greet us; 

Their heels swayed inward 

As they walked. 

They offered fruits 

— Fruits that were strange to us ; 
Mellow they were, and with a scent 
Of sun, of summer, 

And of woodland nights. 
We ate 

— And dreams closed round. 



[i»] 



Dusk 

Night like a hawk 

Swooped down 

On to the phoenix bird, 

— Tore out its flaming feathers. 

Solitary plumes 

Flared down into the darkness, 

Floating above the distant sea. 

Stillness and heat clung together; 

And the hawk 

Spread out her wings. 

Gigantic pinions 

Flutter the air above, 

Fanning our faces 

And 

We sing 



[13] 



Sailor-Song 

On swinging seas our ship has flown 

— In sun and shadow lands alit. 
We saw the sack of Carthage Town 
(And Dido building it). 

Cassandra, direful prophetess, 

We heard foretell the fate of Troy, 

And through its streets helped wheel and press 

That wooden, painted toy. 

We've seen events aboard this hulk 
Of grave import and mystery 

— The serpent's writhing horrid bulk 
Go seething through the sea. 

Then once we left Atlantis Town. 
Behind us like a lily flower 
It blossomed ; but then down, far down, 
Sank every vane and tower. 

Now you can hear the clanging beat 
Of bells beneath the furious foam. 
In coral palaces the great 
Sea monsters make their home. 

[14] 



Sailor-Song 

Their corridors with pearl are pav'd; 
Float down them in an endless flight 
Fierce finny beasts. The walls are laved 
In iridescent light. 

We brought gifts — myrrh and frankincense — 
From Khubla to the Great Moghul; 
Espied the Juggernaut immense 
Pound over flesh and skull; 

Saw desert-men atone for ills 

With frenzied hands, with wounds that gape, 

— The hermits hidden in the hills 

— The Herod in his Tyrian cape. 

From out our ship, held fast by gale, 
We watched Andromeda's release; 
Beheld the galleon in full sail 
That flew the Golden Fleece. 

Icarus, proud of his new power, 
We saw stretch out his wings to fly. 
We heard in that tremendous hour 
The cry from Calvary. 

Thus many things we understand 
That puzzle landsmen: we can tell 
Of perils in each time and land; 
But outside Heaven or Hell 

[15] 



Sailor-Song 

No fruit so strange we tasted save 
But one; none cast so strange a spell 
Except the fruit the first Eve gave 
To the first man who fell. 



[16] 



The Dance 

The song ends. 

The rocking earth 

Plunges madly 

— Lunges like a man 

About to fight. 

Trees roll beckoning branches at us, 

Branches that swing and sway. 

From the forest 

The animals 

Howl 

Like laughter. 

With their burning scimitars 

Flames slice the night. 

Monotony, 

A life preserved in ocean salt, 

Scales off our limbs. 

Within our veins 

The liquor of this fruit-of-fire 

Mounts in splendour inexhaustible. 

The world itself 

Dances 

To make us dance 

In cosmic frenzy. 

[17] 



Why Should a Sailor Ride the Sea? 

Why should a sailor ride the sea, 
When he can drink and dance and sing, 
Or watch the stars out-blossoming 
Upon the tree of night? 

Why should he face the tear-salt waves, 
When he can sing, or feast on fruit, 
Dance to the silver-sobbing lute, 
And all men seem his slaves? 

No more to ship or sea we'll go, 
To watch the land sink out of sight 
Suffused by purple fumes of night, 
Each heart weighed down with woe. 

But under rustling fretted lace 

Of leaves, we'll dance and stamp our feet 

In frenzy, to the furious beat, 

— The rhythm of all space. 

Or watch each dappled fawn and elf 
Spring from the green lairs where they hide; 
Now every soul is multiplied 
And communes with itself. 
[18] 



Why Should a Sailor Ride the Sea? 

The softly sailing moon is now 
A pendulum, hung in a vast 
Blue bubble — so to mark our fast 
Lithe movements to and fro. 

Down from the sky the willing stars 
Fall round each brow a crown to form ; 
Till feet and limbs, a rushing storm, 
Dance whirling on in ecstasy. 

The earth dances; 

The earth dances; 

Trees charge at us 

Like horsemen; 

Forests swoop 

Down the hill, 

Charging at us, 

But we are brave, 

Full of a fiery courage, 

And go onward 

Onward, 

Through the galloping trees. 

We shout 

Glowing phrases 

— Snatches of ineffable wit. 

The frenzy in our feet 

Must surely set the world afire. 

Yet still the stars 

Rain down their golden tremors of delight, 

[19] 



Why Should a Sailor Ride the Sea? 

And the moon 
Sweeps like a bird 
Through the arch of space. 

We, too, 

Float downward, 

Gently 

To soft shipwreck. 

We, too, 

Are of the kindred of the Pleiades ; 

Reel on our golden path 

Down, 

Down, 

Through the curved emptiness of the heavens. 



[20] 



Part II 

Cornucopia 

Now music fills the night with moving shades; 

Its velvet darkness, veined like a grape, 

Obscures and falls round many a subtle shape 

— ■ Figures that steal through cool tall colonnades, 

Vast minotaurian corridors of sleep; 

Rhythmic they pass us, splashed by red cascades 

Of wine, fierce-flashing fountains whose proud waves 

Shimmer awhile ; plunge foaming over steep 

Age-polished rocks, into the dim cold caves 

Of starlit dusk below — then merge with night, 

Softly as children sinking into sleep. 

But now more figures sway 'into our sight; 
Strong and bare-shouldered, pressed and laden down, 
Stagger across the terraces. They bear 
Great Cornucopia of summer fruit 
And heavy roses scented with the noon 
— Piled up with fruit and blossoms, all full blown, 
Crimson, or golden as the harvest moon — 
Piled up and overflowing in a flood 
Of riches; brilliant-plumaged birds, that sing 
As the faint playing on a far sweet lute, 
[21] 



Cornucopia 

Warble their tales of conquest and of love; 
Perch on each shoulder; sweep each rainbow wing 
Like lightning through the breathless dark above. 
Heaped up in vases gems shine hard and bright; 
Suddenly they flare out — gleaming red like blood 
For now the darkness turns to swelling light, 
Great torches gild each shadow, tear the sky, 
As drums tear through the silence of the night ; 
Breaking its crystal quiet — making us cry 
Or catch our sobbing breath in sudden fear. 
A shadow stumbles, and the jewels shower 
On to the pavers with a sharp sweet sound. 
They mingle with the fountain drops that flower 
Up in a scarlet bloom above the ground, 
A beauteous changing blossom ; then they rain 
On to the broad mysterious terraces, 
Where sea-gods rise to watch in cold disdain 
Before those vast vermilion palaces, 

— Watch where the slumbering coral gods of noon, 
Drunk with the sudden golden light and flare 

Of flaming torches, try to pluck and tear 
That wan enchanted lotus flower, the moon, 
Down from its calm still waters ; thus they fall, 
Like flowing plumes, the fountains of our festival. 

Slowly the torches die. They echo long, 
These last notes of a Bacchanalian song, 
Of drifting drowsy beauty, born of sleep, 

— Vast as the sea, as changing and as deep. 
In thanksgiving for shelt'ring summer skies 

[22] 



Cornucopia 

Still, far away, a fervent red light glows. 
Small winds brush past against our lips and eyes, 
Caress them like a laughing summer rose, 
And rainbow moths flit by, in circling flight. 
A harp sobs out its crystal syrupings ; 
Faintly it sounds, as the poor petal-wings, 
Fragile yet radiant, of a butterfly 
Beating against the barriers of night. 

Then from the Ocean came the Syren song, 
Heavy with perfume, yet faint as a sigh, 
Kissing our minds, and changing right from wrong; 
Chaining our limbs; making our bodies seem 
Inert and spellbound, dead as in a dream. 

Bound by the silver fetters of your voice 

To this new slavery of dreams, 

We, listening, rejoice. 

The magic strains 

Swell in this darkness star-devoid. 

The music streams 

Upon the world in patterns passionate yet clear, 

And stains 

Each soul. The mind, decoyed 

By thoughts that grind and tear 

Away old values, 

Is sent down other thoughts 

So subtly swift, 

That in their fleeting passage 

They can cut adrift our souls 

[23] 



Cornucopia 

Upon a sea of wonder and of fear. 

Within the arid minds of men 

This music sounds but once, for then 

They hear no other song. 

In it, tumultuous rush of wings, 

The glamour of old lovely things 

In deserts buried long, 

The grace of beasts that bound and leap 

With movements blithe and strong 

— Of those that creep 

Away in hissing-reptile rage — 

All these, all these are found. 

They hear 

The secrets, solved, of each dead age, 

Each mystery is clear. 

For in this music's flow, the din 

Of spheres that tear and speed and spin 

Through pulsing space is heard, 

And all things men have loved and feared 

Are mirror'd in each sound. 



[24] 



Song 



Our hidden voices, wreathed with love's soft flowers, 
Wind-toss'd thro' valleys, tremble across seas 
To turbann'd cities; touch tall lonely towers, 
Call to you thro' the sky, the wind, the trees. 

Misted and golden as the hanging moon, 

That like a summer fruit floats from the sky, 

Thrills out our distant age-enchanted tune, 

— Nor will it let you pass our beauty by. 

But if it should not reach to stir your mind, 

Then hold a summer rose against the ear, 

Till through its crimson sweetness you can hear 

The falling flow of rhythm — so designed 

That from this secret island, like a star 

Shining above a shrouded world, our song 

Cleaves through the darkest night and echoes long, 

Bidding you follow whether near or far. 

Come hither where the mermaids churn the foam, 

Lashing their tails across the calm, or dive 

To groves and gardens of bright flowers; then roam 

Beneath the shade of stone-branched trees, or drive 

Some slow sea-monster to its musselled home. 

Here, as a ladder, they climb up and down 

The rainbow's steep refracted steps of light, 

[25] 



Song 

Till, when the dusk sends down its rippling frown, 

They quiver back to us in silver flight. 

The moon sails down once more; our mermaids bring 

Rich gifts of ocean fruit. Again we sing. 

Enchantment, love, vague fear, and memories 

That cling about us like the fumes of wine 

With myriad love-enhancing mysteries 

We pour out in one song — intense — divine, 

Down the deep moonlight chasms of the waves 

Our song floats on the opiate breeze. Why seek 

To goad your carven galleys, fast-bound slaves 

Who search each sweeping line of bay and creek, 

Only to stagger on a hidden rock, or find 

The limp dead sails swept off by sudden wind? 

Thus always you must search the cruel sea, 

For if you find us mankind shall be free! 

But when you sleep we grasp you by the hand, 
And to the trickling honey of the flute 
We lead you to a distant shimmering land 
Where lotus-eaters munch their golden fruit, 
Then fall upon the fields of summer flowers 
In drunken sunlit slumber, while a faun 
Prances and dances round them. 

Oh, those hours 
When through the crystal valleys of the dawn 
Down from the haunted forests of the night 
There dash the dew-drenched centaurs on their way, 
Mad with the sudden rush of golden light 
— Af right the lotus-eaters, as they sway 

[26] 



Song 

Towards the woodlands in a stumbling flight. 

In these deep groves we follow through the cool 

Shadow of high columnar trees, to find 

The fallen sky within a forest pool 

That's faintly veiled and fretted by a wind, 

Lest our white flashing limbs should turn you blind. 

As the sweet sound of bells that fall and fade 
In watery circles on the verge of night, 
So rounded ripples spread beneath the shade 
Of flowing branches dripping with green light. 

Thus do we wander ; but when day is spent 
We grope our way thro' vast tall palaces, 
Palaces sinister and somnolent, 
Where lurk dim fears and unknown menaces. 

These high pale walls and this pale shining floor 
Seem built of bones, by ages planed and ground 
To a white smoothness. 

On this rock-bound shore 
The bodies of dead sailors oft are found. 

These sombre arches pierce the sullen sky. 

These pillars are the pillars of the night. 

Of what avail your strife and agony? 

Why seek to search and struggle for the light? 

Our music chains you: binds your limbs from flight. 

[27] 



Prospect Road 

Gigantic houses, tattered by all time, 

Raise their immense and ruined bulk and height 

In one unending universal street, 

Against a strange and sunken yellow sky 

— Like sunset trickling through into the sea, 
Down to the depths — yellow and grey and green. 
Blind windows face the interminable road ; 
Innumerable those windows seem to stretch 

All smeared and stained and stamped with time and blood, 

— Stains that seem faces — horrid twitching masks 
Moving their lewd derisive lips and tongues, 
Spitting out treacheries with vampire lips — 

Or eyes that gaze from far blank-stretching walls 

— The tortured eyes of those who see their death 
Approaching aeon-by-aeon along this road. 
Behind the walls sound voices whispering 

Of dire and hidden, carefully hidden, thoughts — 
Cruel, wicked and unfathomable things 
That lie behind this infamy of stone. 
Then clamour, shrieking voices, or a pause 
That falls like lead through the suspended air; 
Broken by laughter — rending piercing sounds 
That seem to tear the fabric of our minds. 
Slinking along these wicked, stricken walls, 

[28] 



Prospect Road 

I reached a shining distant point of light. 
And glory came — vast and unending light, 
Rays — flashing, writhing rays of light. 
And then the music sounded. Ah, that sound ! 

Cadences rose and fell unendingly — 

Quivering, shining waves of sound and sight — 

Sounds of the universe — the cries of space 

And planets tumbling wildly round our world 

— Showing the meaning of the meaningless. 

" God and eternity " — strange flashing sounds 

The whirl of time, " Melchisedec "— " Glory of God " 

And space — the universe — like framing words — 

" Gog and Magog " — " Infinity " — the rush of waters 

And the sky comes down. 

Down with the splintering stars. 

1916-1919. 



[29] 



Book II 
Green-Fly 



Green-Fly 

War-Horses 

How they come out 

— These Septuagenarian Butterflies — 
After resting 

For four years! 

Surely they are more spirited 
Than ever? 
Their enamelled wings 
Are rusty with waiting 

— Their eyelids 
Sag a little 

Like those of a bloodhound; 

But they swim gaily into the limelight. 

Oh, these war-horses! 
They have seen it through. 
Theirs has been a splendid part! 
The waiting — the weariness! 
For the Queens of Sheba 
Are used to courts and feasting; 
But for four years 
Platitudes have remained 

[33] 



War-Horses 

Uncoined, 

For there have been few parties 

And only 

Three stout meals 

A day. 

But now 

They have come out. 

They have preened 

And dried themselves 

After their blood-bath. 

Old men seem a little younger, 

And tortoise-shell combs 

Are longer than ever; 

Earrings weigh down aged ears; 

And Golconda has given them of its best. 

They have seen it through ! 

Theirs is the triumph, 

And, beneath 

The carved smile of the Mona Lisa 

False teeth, 

Rattle 

Like machine guns, 

In anticipation 

Of food and platitudes. 

Les Veilles Dames Sans Merci! 



[34] 



Church-Parade 

The flattened sea is harsh and blue — 
Lies stiff beneath — one tone, one hue, 
While concertina waves unfold 
The painted shimmering sands of gold. 

Each bird that whirls and wheels on high 
Must strangle, stifle in, its cry, 

For nothing that's of Nature born 
Should seem so on the Sabbath morn. 

The terrace glitters hard and white, 
Bedaubed and flecked with points of light 

That flicker at the passers-by — 
Reproachful as a curate's eye. 

And china flowers, in steel-bound beds, 
Flare out in blues and flaming reds; 

Each blossom, rich and opulent, 
Stands like a soldier, and its scent 

Is turned to camphor in the air. 
No breath of wind would ever dare 



Church-Parade 

To make the trees' plump branches sway, 
Whose thick green leaves hang down to pray. 

The stiff, tall churches vomit out 
Their rustling masses of devout, 

Tall churches whose stained Gothic night 
Refuses to receive the light! 

Watch how the stately walk along 
Toward the terrace, join the throng 

That paces carefully up and down 
Above a cut-out cardboard town! 

With prayer-book rigid in each hand, 
They look below at sea and sand. 

The round contentment in their eyes 
Betrays their favourite fond surmise, 

That all successful at a trade 

Shall tread an eternal Church-Parade, 

And every soul that's sleek and fat 
Shall gain a heavenly top-hat. 

From out the Church's Gothic night, 
Past beds of blossoms china-bright, 
Beneath the green trees' porous shade, 
We watch the sea-side Church-Parade. 

[36] 



At the House of Mrs. Kinfoot 

At the house of Mrs. Kinfoot 
Are collected 
Men and women 
Of all ages. 
They are supposed 
To sing, paint, or to play the piano. 
In the drawing-room 
The fireplace is set 
With green tiles 
Of an acanthus pattern. 
The black curls of Mrs. Kinfoot 
Are symmetrical, 
— Descended, it is said, 
From the Kings of Ethiopia — 
But the British bourgeoisie has triumphed. 
Mr. Kinfoot is bald 
And talks 

In front of the fireplace 
With his head on one side, 
And his right hand 
In his pocket. 

The joy of catching tame elephants, 
And finding them to be white ones, 
[37] 



At the House of Mrs. Kinfoot 

Still gleams from the jungle-eyes 

Of Mrs. Kinfoot, 

But her mind is no jungle 

Of Ethiopia, 

But a sound British meadow. 



Listen then to the gospel of Mrs. Kinfoot: 

" The world was made for the British bourgeoisie, 

They are its Swiss Family Robinson ; 

The world is not what it was. 

We cannot understand all this unrest." 

Adam and Eve were born to evening dress 

In the southern confines 

Of Belgravia. 

Eve was very artistic, and all that, 

And felt the fall 

Quite dreadfully. 

Cain was such a man of the world 

And belonged to every club in London ; 

His father simply adored him, 

— But had never really liked Abel, 
Who was rather a milk-sop. 

Nothing exists which the British bourgeoisie 
Does not understand ; 
Therefore there is no death 

— And, of course, no life. 
The British bourgeoisie 

Is not born, 
And does not die, 

[38] 



At the House of Mrs. Kinfoot 

But, if it is ill, 

It has a frightened look in its eyes. 

" The War was splendid, wasn't it? 
Oh yes, splendid, splendid." 

Mrs. Kinfoot is a dear, 
And so artistic. 



[39] 



Green-Fly 

I 

Like ninepins houses stand up square 
In lines; their windows mouths to bite 

At servants, who lean out to stare 
At anything that moves in sight. 

Where once was green-limbed tree or ledge 
Of greener moss or flowery lane, 

Set back behind a private hedge 
Each house repeats itself again. 

Each house repeats itself again, 

But smaller still and yet more dry; 

For — just as those who live within — 
So have these houses progeny. 

Throughout each dusty endless year, 
Whose days seem merely wet or fine, 

These children constantly appear 
In an unending dusty line. 

As on a rose that is ill-grown 

Nature, insulted and defied, 
Showers down a blight, so sends she down 

On houses, those who live inside. 
[40] 



Green-Fly 
II 

Within each high, well-papered room, 

Compressed, all darkness lay, 
Darkness of night, and crypt, and tomb, 

Nor ever entered day. 

But through the endless black there crept, 
With groping hand and groping thought, 

With eyes that blinked, but never wept, 
And minds that fell, but never fought, 

The wonderless, the hard, the nice, 

Who scurry at a ray of light, 
Then, like a flock of frightened mice, 

Career back into night. 

From out this damning dreadful dark 
(While history, thundering, rolls by) 

They wait for an anaemic lark 
To sing from weak blue sky. 

Or if a dog is hurt, why then 
They see the evil, and they cry. 

But yet they watch ten million men 
Go out to end in agony! 

Their own strange God they have set up, 
Of clay, of iron, and mothed hide; 

Whose eyes, each convex as a cup, 
Reflect the herd endeified. 

[41] 



Green-Fly 

Their twisted feet in boots He made 
To walk the narrow asphalt way, 

And gave each room a curtain's shade 
To muffle out the light of day. 

For this God understands their need ; 

Created lids for each pale eye; 
He sculped each mouth to say " Agreed." 

And gives them coffins if they die. 

When, if for punishment they go 
To other lands, why, it should be 

The judgment that, down there below, 
They see this world as they might see! 

A world of contrast, shade and light — 
Clashing romance and cruelty, 

But stricken with the dreadful blight 
Of fear to feel and fear to cry. 

Where for a moment lives are filled 
With love or hate — where born of pain 

The children grow up — to be killed ! 
Where freedom — dead — is born again. 

Wherein life's pattern crude and shrill 
Is weft by neither foe nor friend, 

But by some rough colossal will 
Towards some vast invisible end. 

[42] 



Green-Fly 

But in those houses dark there creep, 
With bodies wrapt in woollen dress, 

With eyes that blink but never weep, 
The sentimental wonderless! 



[43] 



De Luxe 
i 

Hymn 

Above from plaster-mountains, 
Wine-shadowed by the sea, 

Spurt white-wool clouds, as fountains 
Whirl from a rockery. 

These clouds were surely given 
To keep the hills from harm, 

For when a cloud is riven 
The fatted rain falls warm. 

Through porous leaves the sun drops 

Each dripping stalactite 
Of green. The chiselled tree-tops 

Seem cut from malachite. 

Stiff leaves with ragged edges 
(Each one a wooden sword) 

Are carved to prickly hedges, 
On which, with one accord, 

[44] 



De Luxe 

Their clock-work songs of calf-love 

Stout birds stop to recite, 
From cages which the sun wove 

Of shade and latticed light. 

Each brittle booth and joy-store 
Shines brightly. Below these 

The ocean at a toy shore 
Yaps like a Pekinese. 

II 

Nursery Rhyme 

The dusky king of Malabar 
Is chief of Eastern Potentates; 
Yet he wears no clothes except 
The jewels that decency dictates. 

A thousand Malabaric wives 
Roam beneath green-tufted palms; 
Revel in the vileness 
That Bishop Heber psalms. 

From honey-combs of light and shade 
They stop to watch black bodies dart 
Into the sea to search for pearls. 
By means of diabolic art 

Magicians keep the sharks away; 
Mutter, utter, each dark spell, 

[45] 



De Luxe 

So that if a thief should steal, 
One more black would go to Hell. 

But Mrs. Freudenthal, in furs, 
From brioche dreams to mild surprise 
Awakes; the music throbs and purrs. 
The cellist, with albino eyes, 

Rivets attention; is, in fact, 
The very climax ; pink eyes flash 
Whenever nervous and pain-racked 
He hears the drums and cymbals clash. 

Mrs. Freudenthal day-dreams 

— Ice-spoon half-way to her nose — 
Till the girl in ochre screams, 

Hits out at the girl in rose. 

This is not at all the way 
To act in large and smart hotels; 
Angrily the couples sway, 
Eagerly the riot swells. 

Girls who cannot act with grace 
Should learn behaviour; stay at home; 
A convent is the proper place. 
Why not join the Church of Rome? 

A waiter nearly drops the tray 

— Twenty tea-cups in one hand. 

[46] 



De Luxe 

Now the band joins in the fray, 
Fighting for the Promised Land. 

Mrs. Freudenthal resents 
The scene ; and slowly rustles out, 
But the orchestra relents, 
Waking from its fever bout. 



[47] 



Book III 
Promenades 



Promenades 

Nocturne 

The valleys that were known in sunlit hours 

Are vast and vague as seas; 

Wan as the blackthorn flowers 

That quiver in the first spring-scented breeze: 

Far as the frosted hollows of the moon. 

The sighing woods are still — 

Wrapp'd in their age-long boon 

Of mystery and sleep. A naked hill, 

Loud and discordant, looms against the sky, 

And little lights like stars 

Break the monotony 

Of blue and silver, black and grey. Strange bars 

Of light resemble silver masks, and leer 

Across the forest lane. 

Tall nettles, rank from rain, 

Scent all the woods with some ancestral fear. 

Trees rustle by the water. A voice sings 
Faintly, to ward off fright. 



[51] 



Nocturne 

The water breathes pale rings 

Of sad, wan light; 

Faintly they grow, 

Then merge into the night: 

The last poor twisted echo takes to flight. 



[5*] 



To W. H. Davies 



The Lament of the Mole-Catcher 

An old, sad man who catches moles 

Went lonely down the lane — 
All lily-green were the lanes and knolls, 

But sorrow numbed his brain. 
He paid no heed to flower or weed 

As he went his lonely way. 
No note he heard from any bird 

That sang that sad spring day. 

" I trapp'd the moles for forty years 

Who could not see the sky, 
I reckoned not blind blood or tears, 

And the Lord has seen them die. 
For forty years I've sought to slay 

The small, the dumb, the blind, 
But now the Lord has made me pay, 

And I am like their kind. 
I cannot see or lane or hill, 

Or flower or bird or moon ; 
Lest life shall lay me lower still, 

O Lord — come take it soon." 



[S3l 



The Beginning 

Great spheres of fire, to which the sun is nought, 
Pass thund'ring round our world. A golden mist 
The margin to the universe — falls round 
The verges of our vision. Rocks ablaze 
Leap upward to the sun, or fall beneath 
The rush of our rapidity, that seems 
Catastrophe, and not the joyous birth 
Of yet another star. The air is full 
Of clashing colour, full of sights and sounds 
Too plain and loud for men to heed or hear, 
The cosmic cries of pain that follow birth : 
A multi-coloured world. 

The scorching heat 
Surpasses all the equatorial days: 
Steam rises from the surface of the sea. 
Gigantic rainbow mists resemble forms 
That bring to mind strange elemental sprites 
Exulting in the chaos of creation. 
They glide above the tumult-ridden sea 
Which now is shaken as are autumn leaves; 
Great hollows open and reveal its depths — 
Devoid of any form of life or death. 
Till wave on wave it gathers strength again 
And shakes a mountain, splits it to the base 

[54] 



The Beginning 

(Still weak from a struggle as a new-born babe). 
Then night comes on, and shows the flaming path 
Of all the rocks that vainly seek the sun. 
Broad as the arch of space, a myriad moons 
Sail slowly by the sea; the glowing world 
Shows up the pallor of their ivory. 
The din grows greater from the universe : 
There rises up the smell of fire and iron, — 
Not dreary like the smell of burnt-out things, 
But like the smell of some gigantic forge — 
Cheerful, of good intent, and full of life. 

Now all the joyous cries of sea and earth, 

The universal harmonies of birth, 

Rise up to haunt the slumber of their God. 



[55J 



The End 

Round the great ruins crawl those things of slime ; 
Green ruins lichenous and scarred by moss — 
An evil lichen that proclaims world doom, 
Like blood dried brown upon a dead man's face. 
And nothing moves save those monstrosities, 
Armoured and grey, and of a monster size. 

But now, a thing passed through the cloying air 
With flap and clatter of its scaly wings — 
As if the whole world echoed from some storm. 
One scarce could see it in the dim green light 
Till suddenly it swooped and made a dart 
And brushed away one of those things of slime, 
Just as a hawk might sweep upon its prey. 

It seems as if the light grows dimmer yet — 
No radiance from the dreadful green above, 
Only a lustrous light or iridescence 
As if from off a carrion-fly, — surrounds 
That vegetation which is never touched 
By any breeze. The air is thick, and brings 
The tainted subtle sweetness of decay. 
Where, yonder, lies the noisome river-course, 
There shows a faintly phosphorescent glow. 

[56] 



The End 

Long writhing bodies fall and twist and rise, 
And one can hear them playing in the mud. 
Upon the ruined walls there gleam and shine 
The track of those grey vast monstrosities — 
As some gigantic snail had crawled along. 

All round the shining bushes waver lines 
Suggesting shadows, slight and grey, but full 
Of that which makes one nigh to dead with fear. 

Watch how those awful shadows culminate 
And dance in one long wish to hurt the world. 

A world that now is past all agony! 



[57] 



Fountains 

" The graven fountain-masks suffer and weep, 
Carved with a smile, the poor mouths clutch 
At a half-remembered song, 
Striving to forget the agony of ever laughing." 

Sacheverell Sitwell. 

Some fountains sing of love 

In full and flute-like notes that charge the night 

With all the red-mouthed essence of the rose; 

Then turn to voices murmuring above, 

Among the trees, 

Of hidden sweet delight. 

Another fountain flows 

With the faint music of a first spring breeze; 

Each falling drop is jewelled by the moon 

To some fine luminous ecstasy of light. 

It sings of noon, 

Of sunlit blossoms on a first spring day 

And all things sweet and pleasant to the sight. 

Another fountain sings 

Of the cool pleasures of those moonlit hours 

When dappled sylvan things 

Trample through thickets and through secret bowers 

[58] 



Fountains 

To prance and play, 

Or, squatting round in rings, 

To wreathe their horned heads with wan sweet flowers 

Till dawn comes grey and sweeps them to the wood. 

Another fountain sobs 

Its song of passions that have passed away. 

Then with a sound like threatening rolling drums it throbs 

And bursts into a flood 

Of fierce wild music ; and its savage spray 

Becomes the blood 

Renewed, of crimes long past. 

Another fountain sings its song of fear, 

Of rustics flying fast 

Before some foe — 

A deadly, unknown foe that comes so near 

They feel his panting breath, 

And run for many a lengthy, panic mile. 

Those graven fountain-masks are white with woe! 

Carved with a happy smile 

They strive to weep . . . 

End their eternal laughing — for awhile 

To lose themselves in sleep 

Or in the silver peacefulness of death. 



[59] 



Song of the Fauns 

When the woods are white beneath the moon 

And grass is wet with crystal dew, 

When in the pool 

So clear and cool 

The moon reflects itself anew, 

We raise ourselves from daylight's swoon, 

We shake away 

The sleep of day, 

Out from our bosky homes we spring; 

Horns wreathed with flowers, 

Throughout the hours 

Of moonlight, worshipping we sing. 

Pale iv'ry goddess, whose wan light 

Looks down upon us worshipping — 

Each dappled faun 

Who shuns the dawn, 

Is here, and rarest gifts we bring — 

The feathers of the birds of night 

Wrought to a crown 

Of softest down 

We offer you, and crystal bright, 

The dew within a lily cup 

Reflecting stars 

In shining bars; 

[60] 



Song of the Fauns 

All things most strange we offer up — 

Rich gifts of fruit and honeyed flowers 

To place within your secret bowers. 

We shake down apples from the trees, 

And pears, and plums with velvet skin ; 

Up to the sky 

We cast these high 

And pray you'll stoop to net them in. 

We dance: then fall upon our knees 

And pray and sing — all this to show 

The love that all loyal fauns must owe 

To you, white goddess of the night. 

But no more play, 

We must away, 

The eastern sky is growing bright. 



[61] 



" A Sculptor's Cruelty " 

The faun runs through the forest of the noon, 
Then leaps into some lovely shrouded glade 
Splashed with hot light. He dances in the shade 

Of tower-like trees, whose branches sway and swoon 
Beneath their weight of green. No breath of air 

Ruffles the vivid blossom or the moss 
On which he pirouettes, all is so fair! 

He leaps about; then, tired and at a loss 

For what to do, he roams the wood — espies 
A figure like himself — but stiff and grey! 

Lacking the hairy chest and dappled thighs 
That are his pride. " But surely this can play 

And scamper, dance and snuffle through the day 
As well as me? " So he comes near and eyes 

The lichened features of a faun of stone. 

Oh ! it is sad to be so young — alone ! 



[62] 



Pierrot Old 

The harvest moon is at its height, 
The evening primrose greets its light 
With grace and joy: then opens up 
The mimic moon within its cup. 
Tall trees, as high as Babel tower, 
Thrown down their shadows to the flower 
Shadows that shiver — seem to see 
An ending to infinity. 

The Pagan Pan has now unbent 
And stoops to sniff the night-stock scent 
That brings a memory sad and old, 
When he was young, and free, and bold, 
To play his pipe in forests black, 
Or follow in some goatherd's track 
Who, fill'd with panic fear, then flees 
Through all the terror-threatening trees. 

Huge silver moths, like ghosts of flowers, 
Hover about the warm dark bowers, 
And wait to breathe the lime-tree scent 
That perfum'd many a compliment 
Address'd to beauties young and gay, 
Their faces powdered by the ray 

[63] 



Pierrot Old 

Of that same moon that looks upon 
Their dreary lichen-cover'd tomb. 
The dryads throw their water wide 
And strive to stem the surging tide 
That dashes up the fountain base, 
Hoping to catch the moon's pale face — 
A game now played without a score 
For three good centuries or more. 
And all the earth smells warm and sweet 

— A fitting place for fairy feet. 

But now a figure white and frail 
Leaps out into the moonlight pale. 
From wakeful thoughts, old age and grief, 
He finds in this strange world relief. 
Yet all the shadow, scent and sound, 
Poor Pierrot's mind do sad confound. 
Watch how he dances to the moon 
While singing some faint fragrant tune! 

But Pierrot now is tired and sad 

— Remembers all the evenings mad 
He spent with that fantastic band 
So gaily wand'ring o'er the land. 
They all are dead — and at an end, 
And he is left without a friend. 
For tho' the hours can pass away, 
Poor Pierrot still must grieve and stay. 

Upon the dewy grass he lies: 

The perfumes stir strange memories. 

[64] 



Pierrot Old 

Once more he hears a laughing cry 

That brings great tear-drops to his eye. 

That step — that look — that voice — that smile. 

Ah! they've been buried a long while! 

And who's the man in pantaloons, 

And he who sings such festive tunes? 

Why, it's that laughing man of sin, 

That roguish rascal Harlequin! 

Forgiving Pierrot hides his head 
Deep in the grass and mourns the dead ; 
Forgetting all the pranks they play'd, ' 
And how he was himself betray'd. 

The butterfly lives but one day, 

But Pierrot still seems doom'd to stay. 

He falls asleep there, tragic-white, 
And wakes to find the bleak daylight. 



[65] 



Night 



All the dim terrors dwelling far below, 
Interr'd by many thousand years of life, 
Arise to revel in this evil dark: 
The wail forlorn of dogs that mourn for men — 
A shuffling footfall on a creaking board, 
The handle of a door that shakes and turns — 
A door that opens slightly, not enough: 
The rustling sigh of silk along a floor, 
The knowledge of being watched by one long dead, 
By something that is outside Nature's pale. 
The unheard sounds that haunt an ancient house: 
The feel of one who listens in the dark, 
Listens to that which happened long ago, 
Or what will happen after we are dust. 
The awful waiting for a near event, 
Or for a crash to rend the silence deep 
Enveloping a house that always waits — 
A house that whispers to itself and weeps. 
The murmur of the yew, or woodland cries, 
A sombre note of music on the breeze ; 
A shudder from the ivy that entwines 
The horror that is felt within its grip. 
The sound of prowling things that walk abroad, 
The nauseous flapping of Night's bat-like wings — 
These are the signs the gods have given us 
To know the limit of our days and powers. 
[66] 



To Margaret Grevillc 



From Carcassonne 



Now night, 

The sighing night, 
Descends to hide and heal 
The crimson wounds 
Ripped in the sky, 
Where the high helmet-towers 
(With clouds as streaming feathers) 
Have torn the Heavens 
In their incessant sunset battle. 

Below, 

Upon the mound, 
Small golden flowers 
Release their daylight slowly 
At the Night's behest, 
Till they become pale discs 
That quiver 

When the evening wind 
Draws his thin fingers 
Down the dew-drenched grass 
— As an old harper, 
Who aw^akes 

[6 7 ] 



From Carcassonne 

From drunken sunlit slumber, 

Blindly plucks 

His silver-sounding strings, 

Making the sound 

That, further, darker down 

The trees make, 

When they draw back 

Their upturned leaves 

In fountain-foaming hurry. 



II 



The curling, hump-backed dolphins, 

Drunk with purple fumes 

Of wine-stained sunset, 

Plunge through the wider waters of the night - 

Waters that well down every narrow street 

In darkening billows, 

Till they become quiet, full — 

Canals that, mirror-like, 

Reflect each sound 

Of snarling song 

In all the town. 

And as the dolphins dive 
There splashes back 
Upon their goat-eared riders, 
Dislodged in sudden fury, 
The foaming froth of summer-cooling winds 
[68] 



From Carcassonne 

— Issuing from where the northern trees 

Bellow their resined breath 

Across the seas 

To ripple through far fields 

Of twilight flowers — 

Sweeping across 

To where these old high towers 

Of Carcassonne 

Still stand to break their flow. 

Neptune, from his high pedestal, 
Can watch the waters of the night 
Rise, further, further, 
And the faun-riders sink below 
The conquering, cool tide. 



[69] 



Progress 

The city's heat is like a leaden pall — 

Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air 

Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare 

Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall 

Black houses crush the creeping beggars down, 

Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool, 

Of silver bodies bathing in a pool, 

Or trees that whisper in some far, small town 

Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold 

Was merely metal, not a grave of mould 

In which men bury all that's fine and fair. 

When they could chase the jewelled butterfly 

Through the green bracken-scented lanes or sigh 

For all the future held so rich and rare; 

When, though they knew it not, their baby cries 

Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies. 



[70] 



The Return of the Prodigal 

I lay awake in that dim room of fear 
Which seemed to hold the essence of the night, 
Clutched in the grip of its tall sentient walls: 
Dark walls and high, that stretch for ever up — 
Up to the darkness, vague and menacing, 
As if no light could ever penetrate 
That mist of shadows, only cast a gloom 
More cavernous upon the atmosphere 
That seems to thicken into cloudy shapes, 
Substantiate — then disappear and die. 
And all the room is full of whisperings ; 
Of moving things that hope I do not heed ; 
And sudden gusts of wind blow cold upon 
My head, lifting the heavy mantle of the air, 
Revealing for an instant some vague thought 
Snatched from the haunting lumberland of dreams. 
Far in the distance, from the open night, 
Sounds an insistent hooting from the wood; 
The owl is calling to its kindred things. 
The bat emits its sinful piercing note — 
So high one cannot hear it, only feel 
The rhythm beat within the shrinking ear. 
A faint breeze blows in from the countryside, 
Rustling the curtains with the forest's breath, 

[71] 



The Return of the Prodigal 

Stirring the grass of many an unknown tomb, 
Some new — some immemorably old, 
Whose dwellers never heard an owl at night, 
Only the reptile sounds and beating wings 
Of some forefather of that bird of night — 
Some flapping scaly monster with huge wings. 
Then, sudden, through the rustling of the room 
Silence shrills out its startling trumpet call 
Of terror, and the house is frozen still. 
Despair dropp'd down like rain upon my heart, 
Catching my breath and clutching at my throat. 
Fear magnified my senses, and my brain 
Could hear beyond the threshold of this world. 
Then through the threatening silence of the house, 
The silent waiting for the coming play — 
There came that halting well-remembered tread, 
The dreadful limp, and dragging of the feet, 
That cruel sin-white face looked through the door! 
And in my scream — that rent the trembling air, 
Reaching the woods and tainting them with death, 
Filling the fountain with strange ripplings 
That make the moon's reflection but a mask 
Like to that face of shame — my soul passed out — 
Out of my ashen lips, to find its end. 



[72] 



London Squares 

Tonight this city seems delirious. The air 

Is fever'd, hot and heavy — yet each street, 

Each tortuous lane and slumb'ring stone-bound square 

Smells of the open woods, so wild and sweet. 

Through the dim spaces, where each town-bred tree 

Sweeps out, mysterious and tall and still, 

The country's passionate spirit — old and free — 

Flings off the fetters of the calm and chill. 

There in the garden, fauns leap out and sing — 
Chant those strange sun-born songs from far away! 
With joyous ecstasy in this new spring, 
They cast the coats and top-hats of the day. 

There by the railings, where the women pace 
With painted faces, passionless and dead, 
Out of the dark, Pan shows his leering face, 
Mocks their large hats and faces painted red. 
Then as they walk away, he mocks their lives, 
Racking each wearied soul with lost desires, 
And — cruelty more subtle — he contrives 
With aching memories of love's first fires 
To tune their hearts up to a different key. 

[73] 



London Squares 

So, when they sleep, the withered years unfold 

— Again, as children round a mother's knee 
They listen to their future as foretold 

— A future rich and innocent and gay. 

Then wake up to the agony of day! 



[74] 



Tears 

Silence o'erwhelms the melody of Night, 
Then slowly drips on to the woods that sigh 
For their past vivid vernal ecstasy. 
The branches and the leaves let in the light 
In patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky 
— Create mysterious Gothic tracery 
Between those high dark pillars, that affright 
Poor weary mortals who are wand'ring by. 

Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rain 
Making each frail tired sigh a sob of pain; 
Each drop that falls, a hollow painted tear 
Such as are shed by Pierrots when they fear 
Black clouds may crush their silver lord to death. 
The world is waxen ; and the wind's least breath 
Would make a hurricane of sound. The earth 
Smells of the hoarded sunlight that gave birth 
To the gold-glowing radiance of that leaf 
Which falls to bury from our sight its grief. 



£u] 



To Violet Gordon-Woodhouse 



Clavichords 

Its pure and dulcet tone 

So clear and cool 

Rings out — tho' muffled by the centuries 

Passed by; 

Each note 

A distant sigh 

From some dead lovely throat. 

A sad cascade of sound 

Floods the dim room with faded memories 

Of beauty that has gone 

Like the reflected rhythm in some dusk blue pool, 

Of dancing figures (long laid in the ground) — 

Like moonlit skies 

Or some far song harmonious and sublime — 

Breaking the leaden slumber of the night. 

A perfume, faint yet fair 

As of an old press'd blossom that's reborn 

Seeming to flower alone 

Within the arid wilderness of Time. 

The music fills the air 

Soft as the outspread fluttering wings 

Of flower-bright butterflies 

[76] 



Clavichords 

That dive and float 

Through the sweet rose-flushed hours of summer 

dawn. 
The rippling sound of silver strings 
Break o'er our senses as small foaming waves 
Break over rocks, 
And into hidden caves 
Of silent waters — never to be found — 
Waters as clear and glistening as gems. 

And in this ancient pool of melodies, 

So soothing, deep, 

We search for strange lost images and diadems 

And old drowned pleasures, 

— Each one shining bright 

And rescued from the crystal depths of sleep. 

As the far sun-kissed sails of some full-rigged boat, 
Blown by a salt cool breeze, 

— Laden with age-old treasures 
And rich merchandise — 

Fade into evening on the foam-flecked seas — 
So this last glowing note 
Hovers awhile — then dies. 



[77] 



Promenades 

Long promenades against the sea 
Kaleidoscopic, chattering! 
Pavilions rising from the sea, 
On which a fawning, flattering, 
Hot crush of orientals move, 
And sell their cheap and tawdry wares, 
To other Jews, and aldermen, 
And rich, retired, provincial mayors. 
Oh ! many colours in the sun ; 
Copper and gold predominate! 
Parasols, held 'gainst the sun 
Throw down their shadows inchoate 
On leering faces looking sly — 
All shining with the heat of June. 
The shifting masses move and talk 
And whistle tunes all out of tune. 

Long promenades against the sea, 
And oranges and mandolines! 
Pavilions rising from the sea 
And penny-in-the-slot machines! 



[78] 



Clown Pondi 

When youth and strength had changed my blood to fire 

And every day passed long and glorious, 
Another link in the eternal chain 

Of life, I turned my love of living and my sense 
For all the unfathomable ways of God, 

My burning sense for laughter and my joy 
In crowds, in tumult, and in blazing lights, 

To make my fellows see these qualities. 
Thus I became " Clown Pondi," and my fame 

Grew high in every theatre in the land. 

I seem'd to draw fresh vigour from the crowds — 

Loving the sea of faces, eyes with tears, 
And gaping mouths wide open — loosely hung ; 

The acrid, opalescent haze of smoke, 
Hanging above the auditorium. 

And over it the crowded galleries 
That float far up, like painted prows of ships — 

All overweighted and alive with men. 
I loved the limelight, hard and white and strong, 

The throbbing music and the theatre's scent, 
That artificial, paper, printed scent 

That sweeps across the footlights to the stalls. 

[79] 



Clown Pondi 

Then was I pleased to strut about the stage, 

With face dead white, and strangely purple nose — 
Flamboyant in the garb of foolery — 

To run about too quickly — and fall down ; 
To make queer noises — inarticulate 

Strange sounds and oaths, the signal for my share 
Of cackling laughter. 

Thus the years pass'd by 
And — all unheeding — swept away my youth, 

Till, one sad night, I heard a voice near-by: 
" Ah ! Poor old man ! It's shocking they should laugh ; 

Mock his bent legs, and poor old toothless jaws! " 

And then old-age rush'd down upon my head, 

Each sombre year roll'd past in solemn time; 
In true perspective — to the jingling tune 

That was my exit ; and so near came death, 
Holding a mirror to my ridicule, 

That show'd each line beneath the smearing paint, 
Each wrinkle underneath the dab of rouge, 

That in my sudden hopelessness I wept. 

But as I left the stage with dragging feet, 

With body bent with age, and crouching low, 

I heard the applauding people pause and say, 
" Who but Clown Pondi could amuse us so? " 



[80] 



Lausaic Theme 

Serapion-the-Sindonite 
Wore a cloth about his loins. 
This Christian Recondite 
Never carried coins. 

Never did he ask for bread ; 
Revelled in his own distress. 
High in spirit, low of head, 
With no other dress 

Than a loin-cloth, Serapion 
Was free from greed and gluttony; 
Progressed in the direction 
Of impassivity. 

Serapion, though ascetic, 

Could not keep within his cell — 

Spiritual athletic, 

Who wrestled with Hell — 

This Sindonitic holy man 
Converted, overcome by pity, 
Thais, the famous courtesan, 
To Christianity. 

[81] 



Lausiac Theme 

Thais was not thin or frail 
But full of figure. Flesh and blood 
Rose up in riot — made her rail 
At a selfless God. 

From Theban windows, far above, 
She plays and sings to a guitar 
With low voice : the light of love 
Beckons like a star. 

Eagerly she welcomed in 
The unexpected Sindonite; 
But he spoke to her of sin — 
Set her soul alight. 

So they went together out 
To the crowded, garish street, 
Where he taught her how to flout 
Fumes of wine and meat. 

To the Thebaid they go — 
Where she stands each Christian test, 
Plaiting palm-leaves to and fro, 
Sure of heaven's rest. 

In the desert they both died, 
Thais and the holy man. 
They were buried side by side, 
Ascetic and courtesan. 

[82] 



Metamorphosis 

The woods that ever love the moon, rest calm and 

white 
Beneath a mist-wrapp'd hill: 
An owl, horned wizard of the night, 
Flaps through the air so soft and still; 
Moaning, it wings its flight 
Far from the forest cool, 
To find the star-entangled surface of a pool, 
Where it may drink its fill 
Of stars; a blossom-laden breeze 
Scatters its treasures — each a fallen moon 
Among the waiting trees — 
Bears back the faded shadow-scents of noon. 

The whispering wood is full of dim, vague fears. 

The rustling branches sway 

And listen for some sound from far away — 

A silver piping down the Pagan years 

Since Time's first joyous birth — 

The listening trees all sigh, 

The moment of their horned king is nigh. 

Then, peal on peal, there sounds the fierce wild mirth 

Of Pan their master, lord and king, 

And round him in a moonlit ring 

His court, so wan and sly! 

[83] 



Metamorphosis 

But then the trees closed round and hid from sight 
Their deeds — the voices seemed to die. 

An owl, horned wizard of the night, 
Flaps through the air so soft and still. 
Moans, as it wings its flight 
Toward the mist-wrapp'd hill. 



[84] 



The Gipsy Queen 

A ragged Gipsy walked the road, 
Her eyes blazed fierce and strong, 
But she gazed at me as on she strode, 
She fiercely gazed, and long. 

" Give me a penny, sir," she said, 

" To buy me drink and buy me bread, 

For I've nothing had to eat or drink, 

And at night I never sleep a wink. 

Cold is the snow and wet the rain, 

But my soul died when my love was slain ! " 

" Fair Gipsy, in some southern clime, 

I've seen your face before 

In some far other distant time, 

But whom are you weeping for? " 

" 'Twas Antony I loved," she said, 
" For him, in vain, I shed these tears, 
But my loved Antony is dead — 
Is dead these long two thousand years; 
Then I was mighty Egypt's pride, 
Fear'd both by friend and foe — 

Yet they believe Cleopatra died 
Two thousand years ago ! " 

[85] 



Black Mass 

The atmosphere is charged with hidden things 

— Thoughts that are waiting — wanting to revive 
Primeval terrors from their present graves 

— Those half-thoughts hidden from the mind of man. 

The fear of those bright, countless stars that shine 
Celestially serene on summer nights, 

— And those, too far for human eye to see — 
That make men feel as small and ill at ease 
As do the thoughts of immortality; 

The fear of seas that stretch beyond our sight 

Unspoilt by any memory of a ship — 

Strange, silent seas that lap the unknown shores 

Of some far-distant, undiscovered land; 

The curious fear of caves and horrid depths 

Where lurk those monsters that we hide away 

And bury in our self-complacency. 

The dread of all that waits unseen, yet heard; 

The fear of moonlight falling on a face ; 

The sounds of sobs at night, the fear of laughter; 

The misty terror lurking in a wood 

Which night has wrapped in her soft robe of sighs. 

The horror that is felt where man is not, 

In lonely lands all dotted with squat trees 

That seem to move in the grey twilight breeze 

[86] 



Black Mass 

— Or sit and watch you like malicious cripples, 

Intent on every movement, every thought — 

Where stones, like evil fungi, raise their bulk 

Cover'd with lichen older than the hills — 

A warning for the ages yet to come ; 

Stones that have seen the sun, and moon, and stars, 

Deflect their course for very weariness. 

These fears are gathered, press'd into a room 

Vibrating with the wish to damage man ; 

To put a seal upon his mind and soul — 

These fears are fused into a living flame. 

The room is filled with men of evil thoughts, 
And some poor timid ones, on evil bent. 
They stand in anxious, ghastly expectation. 

The guttering light is low, and follows them 

With subtle shadows tall beyond belief : 

Vast elemental shapes that make men feel 

Like dusty atoms blown by wayward winds 

About the world : shadows that sway and swing, 

And sigh and talk, as if themselves alive. 

Small shadows cringe about the room incredibly, 

Grotesque and dwarf-like in their attitudes; 

Malignant, mocking things that caper round — 

Triumphant heralds of an evil reign. 

Secret and swift they flit about the wall; 

Noiseless, they drag their feet about the floor, 

And murmur subtle infamies of love, 

Sweet-sounding threats, and bribes, and baleful thoughts 

[87] 



Black Mass 

Yet all are waiting, evilly alert . . . 
Yet all are waiting — watching for events. 

Silence has ceased to be a negative, 

Becomes a thing of substance — fills the room 

And clings like ivy to the listening walls. 

The flickering light flares up — then gutters out. 

The shadows seem to shiver and expand 

To active, evil things that breathe and live. 

But now they whirl and dance in ecstasy. 

The highest moment of their mass is near. 

We only feel the swaying of the shades, 

— Rhythm of wicked music that escapes 

Our consciousness, tho' we have known it long — 

The music of the evil things of Night 

Scarcely remembered from some dim, vast world — 

The things that haunted us when we were young 

And nearer to our past realities. 

Like scaly snakes, the hymn to evil writhes 

Through the sub-conscious basis of our mind. 

Eddies of icy breath, or hot as flame, 

Twist into all the corners of the room, 

Filling our veins with fire like red-hot iron, 

And wicked as the Prince of Evil Things. 

Faintly his glowing presence is revealed to us 
Amid the chorus of his satellites. 
The consummation of our awful hopes. 

[88] 



Pierrot at the War 

The leaden years have dragged themselves away; 

The blossoms of the world lie all dash'd down 
And flattened by the hurricane of death: 
The roses fallen, and their fragrant breath 

Has passed beyond our senses — and we drown 
Our tragic thoughts: confine them to the day. 

Pierrot was happy here two years ago, 

Singing through all the summer-scented hours, 

Dancing throughout the warm moon-haunted night. 

Swan-like his floating sleeves, so long and white, 
Sailed the blue waters of the dusk. Wan flowers, 

Like moons, perfumed the crystal valley far below. 

But now these moonlit sleeves lie on the ground, 
Trampled and torn from many a deadly fight. 

With fingers clenched, and face a mask of stone, 

He gazes at the sky — left all alone — 
Grimacing under every rising light: 

His body waits the peace his soul has found. 

April, 19 1 7. 



[89] 



Spring Hours 

The air is silken — soft and dark — 
Calm as the waters of some blue, far sea ; 

Sweet as a youthful dream, 
The trees stand cold and stark, 
Yet full of the new life which makes each tree 
To tremble with delight; sets free 
The summer rapture of the stream. 

But now the clouds disperse and drift away, 
Splashing the woods with patches of pale light, 

Sail off like silver ships, and then display 
The dazzling myriad blossoms of the night. 

Ah ! It is worth full many a sun-gilt hour 
To see the heavens bursting into flower. 



[90] 



Book IV 
War Poems 



War Poems 

Therefore is the Name of it Called 
Babel " 

And still we stood and stared far down 
Into that ember-glowing town, 
Which every shaft and shock of fate 
Had shorn unto its base. Too late 
Came carelessly Serenity. 

Now torn and broken houses gaze 
On to the rat-infested maze 
That once sent up rose-silver haze 
To mingle through eternity. 

The outlines once so strongly wrought, 
Of city walls, are now a thought 
Or jest unto the dead who fought . . . 
Foundation for futurity. 

The shimmering sands where once there played 
Children with painted pail and spade 
Are dreary desolate — afraid 
To meet night's dark humanity, 

[93] 



Babel 

Whose silver cool remakes the dead, 
And lays no blame on any head 
For all the havoc, fire, and lead, 
That fell upon us suddenly, 

When all we came to know as good 
Gave way to Evil's fiery flood, 
And monstrous myths of iron and blood 
Seem to obscure God's clarity . 

Deep sunk in sin, this tragic star 
Sinks deeper still, and wages war 
Against itself; strewn all the seas 
With victims of a world disease 
— And we are left to drink the lees 
Of Babel's direful prophecy. 



January, 1916. 



[94] 



Twentieth-Century Harlequinade 

Fate, malign dotard, weary from his days, 

Too old for memory, yet craving pleasure, 

Now finds the night too long and bitter cold 

— Reminding him of death — the sun too hot. 

The beauty of the universe he hates, 

Yet stands regarding earthly carnivals: 

The clatter and the clang of car and train, 

The hurrying throng of homeward-going men, 

The cries of children, colour of the streets, 

Their whistling and their shouting and their joy, 

The lights, the trees, the fanes and towers of churches, 

Thanksgiving for the sun, the moon, the earth, 

The labour, love, and laughter of our lives. 

He thinks they mock his age with ribaldry, 

From far within his aeon-battered brain 
Weil up those wanton wistful images 
That first beguiled the folk of Bergamo, 
Now like himself, degraded and distress'd, 
They sink to ignominy; but the clown 
Remains, reminder of their former state, 
And still earns hurricanes of hoarse applause. 
This dotard now decides to end the earth 
(Wrecked by its own and his futility). 

[95] 



Harlequinade 

Recalls the formula of world-broad mirth 
— A senseless hitting of those unaware, 
Unnecessary breaking of their chattels. 

The pantomime of life is near its close: 
The stage is strewn with ends and bits of things, 
With mortals maim'd or crucified, and left 
To gape at endless horror through eternity. 

The face of Fate is wet with other paint 
Than that incarnadines the human clown : 
Yet still he waves a bladder, red as gold, 
And still he gaily hits about with it, 
And still the dread revealing limelight plays 
Till the whole sicken'd scene becomes afire. 
Antic himself falls on the funeral pyre 
Of twisted, tortured, mortifying men. 



March, 1916. 



[96] 



To Helen 



This Generation 

Their youth was fevered — passionate, quick to drain 

The last few pleasures from the cup of life 
Before they turn'd to suck the dregs of pain 

And end their young-old lives in mortal strife. 
They paid the debts of many a hundred year 

Of foolishness and riches in alloy. 
They went to death ; nor did they shed a tear 

For all they sacrificed of love and joy. 
Their tears ran dry when they were in the womb, 
For, entering life — they found it was their tomb. 



1917. 



[97] 



To Francis Meynell 



Sheep-Song 



From within our pens, 

Stout built, 

We watch the sorrows of the world. 

Imperturbably 

We see the blood 

Drip and ooze on to the walls. 

Without a sigh 

We watch our lambs 

Stuffed and fattened for the slaughter. 

In our liquid eyes lie hidden 
The mystery of empty spaces 

— All the secrets of the vacuum. 

Yet w r e can be moved ; 
When the head-sheep bleats, 
We bleat with him ; 
When he stampedes 

— Heavy with foot-rot — 
We gallop after him 
Until 

In our frenzy 
We trip him up 

— And a new sheep leads us. 

[98] 



Sheep-Song 

We are the greatest sheep in the world ; 

There are no sheep like us. 

We come of an imperial bleat; 

Our voices, 

Trembling with music, 

Call to our lambs oversea. 

With us they crash across continents. 



We will not heed the herdsmen, 

For they warned us, 

" Do not stampede " ; 

Yet we were forced to do so. 

Never will we trust a herdsman again. 



Then the black lamb asked, 

Saying, " Why did we start this glorious Gadarene 

descent? " 
And the herd bleated angrily, 
" We went in with clean feet, 
And we will come out with empty heads. 
We gain nothing by it, 
Therefore 

It is a noble thing to do. 
We are stampeding to end stampedes. 
We are fighting for lambs 
Who are never likely to be born. 
When once a sheep gets its blood up 
The goats will remember. . . ." 

[99] 



Sheep-Song 

But the herdsman swooped down 

Shouting, 

" Get back to your pens there." 

September, 1918. 



[lOO] 



The Poet's Lament 

Before the dawning of the death-day 

My mind was a confusion of beauty. 

Thoughts fell from it in riot 

Of colour, 

In wreaths and garlands of flowers and fruit. 

Then the red dawn came 

— And no thought came to me 

Except anger 

And bitter reproach. 

God filled my mouth 

With the burning pebbles of hatred, 

And choked my soul with a whirl-wind of fury. 

He made my tongue 

A flaming sword 

To cut and wither 

The white soft edges 

Of their anaemic souls. 

I ridiculed them, 

I despised them 

. . . But they had stolen my soul away. 

Yes, they had stolen my soul from me. 

My heart jumps up into my mouth 

In fury; 

They have stolen my soul away, 

Oil 



The Poet's Lament 

But we will wait, 

And later words will come 

Words that in their burning flight 
Shall scorch and flay, 
Or flare like fireworks 
Above their heads. 

In those days my soul shall be restored to me 
And they shall remember, 
They shall remember! 



[102] 



Judas and the Profiteer 

Judas descended to this lower Hell 

To meet his only friend — the profiteer — 
Who, looking fat and rubicund and well , 

Regarded him, and then said with a sneer, 
" Iscariot, they did you! Fool! to sell 

For silver pence the body of God's Son, 
Whereas for maiming men with sword and shell 

I gain at least a golden million." 

But Judas answered : " You deserve your gold ; 
It's not His body but His soul you've sold." 



[I03] 



To H. W. Massingham 



Rhapsode 

Why should we sing to you of little things — 
You who lack all imagination? 
Why should we sing to you of your poor joys, 
That you may see beauty through a poet's mind — 
Beauty where there was none before? 
Why should we heed your miserable opinions, 
And your paltry fears? 
Why listen to your tales and narratives — 
Long lanes of boredom along which you 
Amble amiably all the dull days 
Of your unnecessary lives? 

We know you now — and what you wish to be told : 
That the larks are singing in the trenches, 
That the fruit trees will again blossom in the spring, 
That Youth is always happy; 
But you know the misery that lies 
Under the surface — 
And we will dig it up for you! 
We shall sing to you 
Of the men who have been trampled 
To death in the circus of Flanders; 
Of the skeletons that gather the fruit. 
From the ruined orchards of France; 
And of those left to rot under an Eastern sun — 
[I0 4 ] 



Rhapsode 

Whose dust mingles with the sand 

Of distant, strange deserts, 

And whose bones are crushed against 

The rocks of unknown seas; 

All dead — dead, 

Defending you and what you stand for. 

You hope that we shall tell you that they found their 

happiness in fighting, 
Or that they died with a song on their lips, 
Or that we shall use the old familiar phrases 
With which your paid servants please you in the Press: 
But we are poets, 
And shall tell the truth. 

You, my dear sir, 

You are so upset 

At being talked to in this way 

That when night 

Has coffin 'd this great city 

Beneath the folds of the sun's funeral pall, 

You will have to drink a little more champagne, 

And visit a theatre or perhaps a music-hall. 

What you need (as you rightly say, my dear sir) is 

CHEERING UP. 

There you will see vastly funny sketches 

Of your fighting countrymen ; 

And they will be represented 

As those of whom you may be proud. 

For they cannot talk English properly, 

[I05] 



Rhapsode 

Or express themselves but by swearing; 

Or perhaps they may be shown as drunk. 

But they will all appear cheerful, 

And you will be pleased ; 

And as you lurch amiably home, you will laugh, 

And at each laugh 

Another countryman will be dead! 

When Christ was slowly dying on that tree — 

Hanging in agony upon that hideous Cross — 

Tortured, betrayed, and spat upon, 

Loud through the thunder and the earthquake's roar 

Rang out 

Those blessed humble human words of doubt: 

"My God! My God! why hast Thou forsaken Me?" 

But near by was a cheerfully chattering group 

Of sects, 

Of Pharisees and Sadducees, 

And all were shocked — 

Pained beyond measure. 

And they said: 

" At least he might have died like a hero 

With an oath on his lips, 

Or the refrain from a comic song — 

Or a cheerful comment of some kind. 

It was very unpleasant for all of us — 

But we had to see it through. 
I hope people will not think we have gone too far — 
Or behaved badly in any way." 

[106] 



Rhapsode 

There in the street below a drunken man reels home, 

And as he goes 

He sings with sentiment: 

"Keep the home fires burning!" 

And the constable helps him on his way. 

But we — 

We should be thrown into prison, 
Or cast into an asylum, 
For we want — 

Peace ! 

September, 1917. 



[107] 



To Siegfried Sassoon 



The Modern Abraham 

His purple fingers clutch a large cigar — 

Plump, mottled fingers, with a ring or two. 
He rests back in his fat armchair. The war 

Has made this change in him. As he looks through 
His cheque-book with a tragic look he sighs: 

" Disabled Soldiers' Fund " he reads afresh, 
And through his meat-red face peer angry eyes — 

The spirit piercing through its mound of flesh. 

They should not ask me to subscribe again! 

Consider me and all that I have done — 
I've fought for Britain with my might and main; 

I make explosives — and I gave a son. 
My factory, converted for the fight 

(I do not like to boast of what I've spent), 
Now manufactures gas and dynamite, 

Which only pays me seventy per cent. 
And if I had ten other sons to send 
I'd make them serve my country to the end, 
So all the neighbours should flock round and say: 

" Oh! look what Mr. Abraham has done. 
He loves his country in the elder way; 

Poor gentleman, he's lost another son! " 

1917. 
[108] 



The Trap 

The world is young and green. 

Its woods are golden beneath the May-time sun; 

But within its trap of steel the rabbit plunges 

Madly to and fro. 

It will bleed to death 

Slowly, 

Slowly, 
Unless there is some escape. 
Why will not someone release it? 

And presently a kindly passer-by 

Stoops down. 

The rabbit's eye glints at him — 

Gleaming from the impenetrable obscurity of its prison. 

He stoops and lifts the catch 

(He cannot hold it long, for the spring is heavy). 

The rabbit could now be free, 

But it does not move; 

For from the darkness of its death-hutch 

The world looks like another brightly baited trap. 

So, remaining within its steel prison, 

It argues thus: 

" Perhaps I may bleed to death, 

But it will probably take a long time, 

[109] 



The Trap 

And, at any rate, 

I am secure 

From the clever people outside. 

Besides, if I did come out now 

All the people who thought I was a lion 

Would see, by the trap-mark on my leg, 

That I am only an unfortunate rabbit, 

And this might promote disloyalty among the children. 

When the clamp closed on my leg 

It was a ruse 

To kill me. 

Probably the lifting of it betrays the same purpose! 

If I come out now 

They will think they can trap rabbits 

Whenever they like. 

How do I know they will not snare me 

Again next year? 

Besides, it looks to me from here . . ." 

But the catch drops down, 

For the stranger is weary. 

From within the hutch 

A thin stream of blood 

Trickles on to the grass 

Outside, 

And leaves a brown stain on its brightness. 

But the dying rabbit is happy, 

Saying: 

" I knew it was only a trap ! " 

April, 1918. 

[no] 



To Roderick Meiklejohn 



The Eternal Club 

Warming their withered hands, the dotards say: 
" In our youth men were happy till they died. 

What is it ails the young men of today — 
To make them bitter and dissatisfied?" 

Two thousand years ago it was the same: 

"Poor Joseph! How he'll feel about his son! 

I knew him as a child — his head aflame 

With gold. He seemed so full of life and fun. 

And even as a young man he was fine, 

Converting tasteless water into wine. 

Then something altered him. He tried to chase 
The money-changers from the Temple door. 
White ringlets swung and tears shone in their poor 
Aged eyes. He grew so bitter and found men 

For friends as discontented — lost all count 
Of caste — denied his father, faith, and then 

He preached that dreadful Sermon on the Mount! 
But even then he would not let things be; 
For when they nailed him high up on the tree, 
And gave him vinegar and pierced his side, 
He asked God to forgive them — still dissatisfied!" 



[Ill] 



Heaven 

A theatre rises dark and mute and drear 

Among those houses that stand clustering round. 

Passing this pleasure-house, I seem'd to hear 
The distant rhythm of some lauding sound, 

The hot applause that greeted every night 

The favourite song, or girl, or joke, or fight. 
The laughter of the young and strong and gay 
Who greeted life — then laid their lives away. 

Do they, then, watch the same old blatant show, 
Forgetting all death's wrench and all its pain 

And all their courage shown against the foe? 
Is this the heaven that they died to gain? 



[112] 



The Blind Pedlar 

I stand alone through each long day 

Upon these pavers; cannot see 

The wares spread out upon this tray 

— For God has taken sight from me ! 

Many a time I've cursed the night 
When I was born. My peering eyes 
Have sought for but one ray of light 
To pierce the darkness. When the skies 

Rain down their first sweet April showers 
On budding branches; when the morn 
Is sweet with breath of spring and flowers, 
I've cursed the night when I was born. 

But now I thank God, and am glad 
For what I cannot see this day 

— The young men crippled, old, and sad, 
With faces burnt and torn away; 

Or those who, rich and old, 
Have battened on the slaughter, 
Whose faces, gorged with blood and gold, 
Are creased in purple laughter! 

January, 1919. 

["3] 



World-Hymn to Moloch 

Holy Moloch, Blessed Lord, 
Hatred to our souls impart. 
Put the heathen to the sword, 
Wound and pierce each contrite heart. 
Never more shall darkness fall 
But it seems a funeral pall; 
Never shall the red sun rise 
But to red and swollen eyes. 
In the centuries that roll, 
Slowly grinding out our tears, 
Often thou hast taken toll; 
Never till these latter years 
Have all nations lost the fray; 
Lead not thou our feet astray. 
Never till the present time 
Have we offered all we hold, 
With one gesture, mad, sublime, 
Sons, and lovers, lands and gold. 
Must we then still pray to thee, 
Moloch, for a victory? 

Eternal Moloch, strong to slay, 
Do not seek to heal or save. 
Lord, it is the better way 

[114] 



World-Hymn to Moloch 

Swift to send them to the grave. 
Those of us too old to go 
Send our sons to face the foe. 
But, O Lord ! we must remain 
Here, to pray and sort the slain. 
In every land the widows weep, 
In every land the children cry. 
Other gods are lulled to sleep, 
All the starving peoples die. 
What is left to offer you? 
Thou, O Sacred King of Death! 
God of Blood and Lord of Guile, 
Do not let us waste our breath, 
Cast on us Thy crimson smile. 
Moloch, Lord, we pray to Thee, 
Send at least one victory. 

All the men in every land 
Pray to Thee through battle's din, 
Swiftly now to show thy hand, 
Pray that soon one side may win. 
Under sea and in the sky, 
Everywhere our children die; 
Laughter, happiness and light 
Perished in a single night. 
In every land the heaving tides 
Wash the sands a dreadful red, 
In every land the tired sun hides 
Under heaps and hills of dead. 
In spite of all we've offered up 

[115] 



World-Hymn to Moloch 

Must we drink and drain the cup? 
Everywhere the dark floods rise, 
Everywhere our hearts are torn. 
Every day a new Christ dies, 
Every day a devil's born. 
Moloch, Lord, we pray to Thee, 
Send at least one victory. 

1917. 



[u6] 



Armchair 

If I were still of handsome middle-age 

I should not govern yet, but still should hope 

To help the prosecution of this war. 

I'd talk and eat (though not eat wheaten bread ), 

I'd send my sons, if old enough, to France, 

Or help to do my share in other ways. 

All through the long spring evenings, when the sun 

Pursues its primrose path towards the hills, 

If fine, I'd plant potatoes on the lawn; 

If wet, write anxious letters to the Press. 

I'd give up wine and spirits, and with pride 

Refuse to eat meat more than once a day, 

And seek to rob the workers of their beer. 

The only way to win a hard-fought war 

Is to annoy the people in small ways, 

Bully or patronize them, as you will! 

I'd teach poor mothers, who have seven sons 

— All fighting men of clean and sober life — 
How to look after babies and to cook; 
Teach them to save their money and invest; 
Not to bring children up in luxury 

— But do without a nursemaid in the house! 

If I were old, or only seventy, 

Then should I be a great man in his prime. 

[117] 



Armchair 

I should rule army corps; at my command 
Men would rise up, salute me, and attack 

— And die. Or I might also govern men 
By making speeches with my toothless jaws, 
Chattering constantly; and men should say, 

" One grand old man is still worth half his pay! " 
That day I'd send my grandsons out to France 

— And wish I'd got ten other ones to send 
(One cannot sacrifice too much, I'd say). 
Then would I make a noble toothless speech, 
And all the listening Parliament would cheer. 
" Gentlemen, we will never end this war 
Till all the younger men with martial mien 
Have entered capitals ; never make peace 
Till they are cripples, on one leg, or dead! " 
Then would the Bishops all go mad with joy, 
Cantuar, Ebor, and the other ones, 

Be overwhelmed with pious ecstasy. 

In thanking Him we'd got a Christian — 
An Englishman — still worth his salt — to talk, 
In every pulpit they would preach and prance; 
And our great Church would work, as heretofore, 
To bring this poor old nation to its knees. 
Then we'd forbid all liberty, and make 
Free speech a relic of our impious past; 
And when this war is finished, when the world 
Is torn and bleeding, cut and bruised to death, 
Then I'd pronounce my peace terms — to the poor! 
But as it is, I am not ninety yet, 
[118] 



Armchair 

And so must pay my reverence to these men — 
These grand old men, who still can see and talk, 
Who sacrifice each other's sons each day. 
O Lord! let me be ninety yet, I pray. 
Methuselah was quite a youngster when 
He died. Now, vainly weeping, we should say: 
"Another great man perished in his prime! " 
O let me govern, Lord, at ninety-nine! " 



August, 191 7. 



["9] 



Ragtime 



The lamps glow here and there, then echo down 

The vast deserted vistas of the town — 

Each light the echo'd note of some refrain 

Repeated in the city's fevered brain. 

Yet all is still, save when there wanders past 

— Finding the silence of the night too long — 

Some tattered wretch, who, from the night outcast, 

Sings with an aching heart a comic song. 

The vapid parrot-words flaunt through the night — 

Silly and gay, yet terrible. We know 

Men sang these words in many a deadly fight, 

And threw them — laughing — to a solemn foe; 

Sang them where tattered houses stand up tall and 

stark, 
And bullets whistle through the ruined street, 
Where live men tread on dead men in the dark, 
And skulls are sown in fields once sown with wheat. 
Across the sea, where night is dark with blood, 
And rockets flash, and guns roar hoarse and deep, 
They struggle through entanglements and mud, 
They suffer wounds — and die — 

But here they sleep. 
From far away the outcast's vacuous song 
[120] 



Ragtime 

Re-echoes like the singing of a throng; 
His dragging footfalls echo down the street, 
And turn into a myriad marching feet. 

December, 1916. 



[121] 



Peace Celebration 

Now we can say of those who died unsung, 
Unwept for, torn, " Thank God they were not blind 
Or mad ! They've perished strong and young, 
Missing the misery we elders find 
In missing them." With such a platitude 
We try to cheer ourselves. And for each life 
Laid down for us, with duty well-imbued, 
With song-on-lip, in splendid soldier strife — 
For sailors, too, who willingly were sunk — 
We'll shout "Hooray!"— 

And get a little drunk. 



[122] 



To Sacheverell 



The Next War 

The long war had ended. 
Its miseries had grown faded. 
Deaf men became difficult to talk to. 
Heroes became bores. 

Those alchemists 

Who had converted blood into gold, 

Had grown elderly. 

But they held a meeting, 

Saying, 

" We think perhaps we ought 

To put up tombs 

Or erect altars 

To those brave lads 

Who were so willingly burnt, 

Or blinded, 

Or maimed, 

Who lost all likeness to a living thing 

Or were blown to bleeding patches of flesh 

For our sakes. 

It would look well. 

Or we might even educate the children." 

But the richest of these wizards 

Coughed gently; 

[123] 



The Next War 

And he said, 

" I have always been to the front 

— In private enterprise — 
I yield in public spirit 

To no man. 

I think yours is a very good idea 

— A capital idea — 
And not too costly. 
But it seems to me 

That the cause for which we fought 

Is again endangered. 

What more fitting memorial for the fallen 

Than that their children 

Should fall for the same cause? " 

Rushing eagerly into the street, 

The kindly old gentleman cried 

To the young: 

" Will you sacrifice 

Through your lethargy 

What your fathers died to gain? 

Our cause is in peril. 

The world must be made safe for the young!" 
And the children 
Went. . . . 



[124] 



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